


The Five Rookies of Montreal

by Robinjay (Tintinnabulation_of_the_Bells)



Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Gally Squared - Freeform, Gally and Chucky are trolls, M/M, Minor Injuries, Montreal, Montreal Canadiens, POV Outsider, Sports Homophobia, but also good people, gallys, the gallys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 01:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7825084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tintinnabulation_of_the_Bells/pseuds/Robinjay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Just like old times,” said Prusty with a mocking wistfulness to his tone. “Except for, well, you know…” He gestured to both Gallagher and Galchenyuk.</p><p>“You’re the one with a kid,” pointed out Gally. “Chucky and I are exactly as much fun as we’ve always been.  Only one of us here is over the age of thirty and a father.”</p><p>“But see, my favorite part of these outings was always watching the two of you strike out with every single girl in the bar. Without your abysmal failures, how am I supposed to amuse myself?”</p><p>“The old-fashioned way. Drink.”</p><p> </p><p>In the year 2021, five rookies play their first NHL game with the Montreal Canadiens. One by one, they each come to suspect that not all is as it seems between the Habs' top scorer and his feisty right winger, but five brains are better than one and it takes a village to discover what's been sitting beneath their noses the entire time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Five Rookies of Montreal

**Author's Note:**

> So naturally I can't predict the future and thus have no idea what the Canadiens lineup will be five years from now or how any of the players will perform. Since I'm making it up as we go along, I'm assuming that the Canadiens have done the right thing and fired Therrien and kept their best players in their lineup like they should. Also, they re-sign Brandon Prust, because why the hell not. All of the rookies are entirely fictional and not in any way based on real people.

Kyle Patrewski stared in awe at the locker room before him. This was it. His first day as an NHL player, a professional hockey player, a member of the storied Montreal Canadiens franchise.

 

“You feel like moving your scrawny ass any time soon?”

 

Kyle whipped around and nearly bowled into the the hulking form of one Brandon Prust, recently re-signed Montreal Canadiens player. With his thick beard and even thicker manbun, he was easily the most unsettling player Kyle had encountered on the team so far. Something mischievous and almost malicious lingered in Prust’s eyes as he surveyed Kyle, all five foot eight inches of him.

 

“Sorry,” squeaked out Kyle and rushed off to the side.

 

Prust just raised an eyebrow. “Twitchy little pipsqueak,” he muttered to no one in particular, then proceeded to march into the locker room with a familiarity Kyle envied. He slapped his duffle bag along the bench until he at last arrived at the stall marked with his name, the one just next to Brendan Gallagher.

 

“That one’s yours,” Kyle heard Prust say to Gallagher. 

 

“Oh?” Gallagher looked directly at him, a wry grin on his face, and Kyle ducked his head in embarrassment. “And why’s that?”

 

“He’s a midget like you,” said Prust, and Gallagher punched him in the arm with considerable force.

 

“Don’t hurt the merchandise,” protested Prust. “This is Habs property now--you can’t hurt me.”

 

“You’ve gotten soft, old man,” echoed a voice across the room. 

 

“Chucky!” exclaimed Prust gleefully. He bounded over to embrace the tall, gruff looking figure entering the locker room with an almost sullen expression on his bearded face. Something in Kyle’s stomach lurched; Alex Galchenyuk, the number one scorer for the Habs the past two seasons (and a Hart trophy candidate just the previous year), was easily the most notable name on the roster, or second most notable after Carey Price depending on who you asked. Either way, with his hulking physique and tall (relative to Kyle) stature, he easily struck the most imposing figure on the entire roster.

 

Prust seemed thoroughly unintimidated. He ruffled his hand through Galchenyuk’s hair before being promptly wrapped in a headlock. 

 

“Like I said, soft,” said Galchenyuk, and the Russian accent only added to Kyle’s nerves. “And old.”

 

“I’ll still kick your ass in a fight any day,” said Prust, and Galchenyuk snorted but released his captive from his grip and wandered over to Gallagher. “It’s good to see Thing One and Thing Two still going strong, by the way.”

 

“We’ve played much better without you,” retorted Gallagher, but he smiled broadly nonetheless. “Just means more work to compensate for carrying your weight.”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

“Are you soft in the brain too?” asked Galchenyuk. “That was weak.”

 

“Just wait till we’re on the ice. Then we’ll see who’s weak.” Prust turned to face Kyle and winked. “Besides, we’ve got some fresh meat to break in, from the looks of it.”

 

Kyle just gulped.

  
  
  


Every bone and muscle in Kyle’s body ached, but that hardly mattered. What mattered was Kyle’s goal, his first ever in the NHL. Granted, it had been what was often termed “a stinker,” but it slid in past the goal line nonetheless, and he intended on celebrating.

 

Two large, firm hands gripped his shoulders from behind. “And where do you think you’re going, Pewter?”

 

Kyle grimaced at the sensation of Prusty’s breath against his neck. “Out to celebrate?”

 

Those two massive hands spun him around violently. “Oh, there will be celebration, but how you do it is at the team’s discretion.”

 

“Isn’t this my goal?” protested Kyle weakly.

 

“Yes, but it’s also Chucky’s hat trick, and rookies don’t get to decide anything. Just follow me to paradise.”

 

Paradise turned out to be a bar five blocks from the Bell Center named, well,  _ Paradise _ . As the two champions of the night, Galchenyuk--no, Chucky--and Kyle were seated at the center of the table while everyone around them took turns providing the alcohol. Kyle prided himself on having one of the higher tolerances of his junior team, but if the way Chucky was chugging his vodka was any indicator, he had nothing on the other members of the team.

 

Next to Chucky sat Gallagher (Gally, he reminded himself) who was nursing a comically fluorescent colored fruity drink complete with a paper umbrella and twisty straw. He sipped at the bright green liquid intensely, as if its consumption required every ounce of concentration.

 

“I cannot believe you still like that shit,” sighed Prusty from across the table. “Have your taste buds not developed past the age of three?”

 

“Just admit it, you like these as much as me. You’re just not man enough for them,” said Gally. Prusty stared stonily in his direction. “Fine, deny yourself this pleasure. Besides, at least one of us has to be sober enough to pull our shit together, and it’s not going to be him.” Brendan jerked his thumb at Chucky, who Kyle estimated was currently downing his seventh shot of the night as Nikita Scherbak chanted a bawdy Russian drinking tune.

 

“Just like old times,” said Prusty with a mocking wistfulness to his tone. “Except for, well, you know…” He gestured to both Gallagher and Galchenyuk.

 

“You’re the one with a kid,” pointed out Gally. “Chucky and I are exactly as much fun as we’ve always been.  Only one of us here is over the age of thirty and a father.”

 

“But see, my favorite part of these outings was always watching the two of you strike out with every single girl in the bar. Without your abysmal failures, how am I supposed to amuse myself?”

 

“The old-fashioned way. Drink.”

 

“Yeah, drink!” cried Chucky, clearly throwing himself headlong and blind into the conversation. “Everyone should drink! Where’s Pewter?” He looked wildly around the room before nearly elbowing Kyle in the face as he spun around. His face split open into a delighted grin. “Here he is! Why isn’t he drinking?”

 

“It’s fine, really,” said Kyle, who was already straddling the line between pleasantly tipsy and full on drunk. 

 

“Nonsense,” said Galchenyuk. “Prusty, your turn to buy. Make sure you…” he stumbled over the words for a moment, then recovered, though his accent thickened, making his words almost incomprehensible. “Make it good. Make it  _ ochen khorosho _ .”

 

Prusty eyed Galchenyuk with an amused expression. “I take it back. This is going to be hilarious.”

 

“Only because you’re not the one taking care of him,” said Gally with exaggerated exasperation, though Kyle detected a note of fondness.

 

“Not my ball and chain to bear, Gally-boy,” responded Prust.

 

Gally sighed and swung his arm around Chucky’s shoulders. “He’s not so bad, I guess. Right, Chucky?”

 

The shot Prusty brought back to the table was a double each for Galchenyuk and Kyle, and anything beyond that point was a complete loss.

 

Kyle woke up in hotel room with a railroad spike in his head and a cottonball mouth. Sprawled across the other bed of the hotel room was Pierre Durand, and if the logs he was snoring were any indication, it had been a rough night all around. He tried to parse through the scattered images caterwauling across his brain, the little snippets of conversation he recalled, and all he found was a heaping mound of confusion. Ball and chain? Chucky? What the hell was in those shots?

 

Of course, it was at that moment that Kyle threw up into his wastebasket, scattering all thoughts of the night before into a jumbled, tangled mess of little importance to his disgustingly hungover body. 

 

Not too bad for a first goal. 

  
  
  
  


No one expected Pierre Durand to pass the Hab’s training camp, but a month and a half into the season, there he was, averaging nearly ten minutes of time on the ice each game and performing more than adequately for a third or fourth-line d-man. Each morning he awoke without a message informing him of his demotion to Hamilton was a good morning, and this day was no exception.

 

After spending almost three weeks in a hotel room with Pewter, Habs management finally arranged for the two of them to move out into the spare rooms of several more experienced members of the team. David Desharnais agreed to foster Pewter for the season, while Pierre himself was shipped off to the apartment of Nathan Beaulieu. He liked Nate well enough, he supposed, though in truth he’d been hoping for a Gallagher. Softening the blow was the fact that Gallagher was hosting no one, not even his unofficial personal rookie and fellow midget Pewter, so Pierre tried not to take it too personally.

 

He also tried not to take his position on the team too personally as well. Pierre was no idiot; he knew he hadn’t been drafted by the Habs for his outstanding speed or nimble hands or Shea Weber-esque slap shot. No. At six foot five, two hundred and fifty pounds, Pierre had been chosen because he could lay bone-crunching hits on his opponents each night, and because he had proven himself to be handy in a fight or two in the minors. After more than a month in the NHL, his fight-less record had begun to nag at him, to whisper in the mirror that if he didn’t begin performing the job expected of him by Boucher, he might soon find himself on a one way trip back to Hamilton.

 

Which is why, when ten minutes into the third period Patrick Kaleta slammed Galchenyuk into the boards with a thud that reverberated across the ice, Pierre dropped the gloves. 

 

As far as fights go, this one, his first of the NHL, was relatively unremarkable. Kaleta’s punches bruised deep, which Pierre expected, but the split skin across his brow definitely surprised him. He bloodied Kaleta plenty in return, but by the time the refs have yanked the two of them apart, Pierre was being led not to the penalty box but to the tunnel where doctors awaited with needle and thread to sew him back together. 

 

With an adrenaline high coursing through his veins, Pierre nearly forgot entirely about the reason for the fight until, that is, he stepped into the trainer’s room to see the panting, grunting figure of Alex Galchenyuk hunched over one of the medical tables. Several trainers surrounded him, and one of them was palpitating Galchenyuk’s shoulder with extreme care, though not enough care if his screwed-up expression and muttered curses were any indicator.

 

One of the remaining trainers led Pierre to his own table, two places apart from Galchenyuk, and began his own examination of the area just above his eyebrow. Pierre simply lay back and allowed the man to perform his examination, nodding or shaking his head when necessary, then holding a wad of gauze to the still-leaking gash across his forehead.

 

Less than ten feet away, Galchenyuk swore, louder than before, then grew silent.

 

Pierre hated that silence.

 

By the time the doctor finished applying the six stitches above his brow, only thirty seconds remained in the period. Carefully, he swung his legs over the table and drew himself into a seated position. From his new vantage point, he observed Galchenyuk still lying across his own med table, ice pack clutched to his shoulder and eyes closed and set to a grimace. The buzzer sounded, announcing the Hab’s victory for the night and the end to Pierre’s most memorable game so far. He ought to be rejoicing, he knew, but the sight of Galchenyuk in pain certainly dampened his mood.

 

Ten minutes after the buzzer, Brendan Gallagher of all people burst through the door and shoved his way past several Habs trainers towards the still figure of Alex Galchenyuk. Once there, his hand fluttered over Galchenyuk’s body as if seeking a place to land, a place safe to touch. He was already fully clad in his street clothes, meaning he must have changed in nearly record time.

 

“Chucky,” he whispered with an unexpected degree of delicacy. “You okay, Chucky?”

 

“Hmm?” Galchenyuk cracked an eye open carefully, then closed them again upon seeing the face in front of him. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

 

“Is he fine?” Gallagher addressed this question not to the man before him, but rather to the nearest available trainer, Kevin.

 

“He dislocated his shoulder,” said Kevin frankly. “It’ll probably be at least a week till he’s cleared to skate again.”

 

“Fuck me,” moaned Galchenyuk. 

 

“You said you were fine,” said Gallagher accusingly.

 

“I am. I will be.”

 

“Fuck you, you’re not. “ He turned his attention to Kevin once more. “Shouldn’t he be wearing a sling or something?”

 

“I was just about to fetch one,” said Kevin, and two minutes later, he returned with a navy blue sling draped across his arm. With the utmost care, Kevin and Gallagher began the process of actually slipping Galchenyuk’s arm into the sling, an agonizing ordeal for all parties involved, and when the task was complete, Galchenyuk slumped so far forward Pierre feared he might actually slip off the table.

 

“They gave you painkillers, didn’t they?” asked Gallagher, though his words rang out with the certainty of a statement, not a question.

 

“‘Course,” muttered Galchenyuk. 

 

“You’re going to be unbearable tonight, aren’t you?”

 

“‘Course.”

 

Gallagher sighed heavily. “Well, at least we’re not on the road, eh?”

 

“Whatever.”

 

“Let’s just get you home, yeah?” Galchenyuk grunted softly. “First step is standing up. There you go, nice and easy.”

 

Galchenyuk swayed gently from side to side as both feet met the floor, but Gallagher swooped in with his own body as support, placing one hand on his elbow, another on the small of his back. The moment his hands touched Galchenyuk, Chucky stilled, and it seemed to Pierre as any tension in his body dissipated upon contact. The hairs at the back of Pierre’s neck prickled uncomfortably, and he looked away from his two teammates. Though he couldn’t provide any actual logical explanation or reason, his gaze at that moment felt intrusive, like a window into something out of reach.

 

“Sick fight, Randy.”

 

Pierre swung his head back up and met the smiling eyes of Brendan Gallagher. “Oh, yeah. Thanks.”

 

Gallagher tapped his own brow. “It’s a good look for you.”

 

Pierre smiled hesitantly in return, unsure of how to respond. It seemed to satisfy Gallagher, because he resumed his slow march out of the trainer’s room with Galchenyuk at his side.

 

“I can’t believe you’re stoned already,” echoed Brendan’s voice from just outside the door.

 

Galchenyuk mumbled something nearly inaudible from the hallway, and already their voices were fading as they progressed further and further away from the room. Whatever he said, Gallagher laughed brightly, and Pierre didn’t need to actually witness their interaction to envision Gallagher’s open-faced smile, grin stretching from ear to ear as he laughed.

 

A sharp ache sprung between his eyes, and Pierre rubbed his forehead vigorously in an attempt to dispel the oncoming headache. God, he needed someone like Gallagher, a devoted friend to hold him steady in moments like these. For starters, he wanted  _ a _ friend. At least in Hamilton he’d known most of his teammates.

 

“You okay, Randy?”

 

Pierre snapped his eyes open. Before him stood Pewter and Vasily Sokolov, another one of this year’s crop of rookies.

 

“Yeah, I’m great.” The words tasted false on his tongue.

 

Pewter nodded. “Well, if you’re feeling up for it, Soks and I were thinking of heading back to my place--well, er, Davey’s place anyways--and just chilling for a while. You down for that?”

 

Pierre gulped. “You sure?”

 

Pewter crinkled his nose in confusion. “Why wouldn’t I be?” He flicked his gaze over to Sokolov, then back to Pierre. “Although, you should probably shower first, dude. I’d prefer it if I could breathe around you.”

 

“Fuck you,” said Pierre. 

 

It felt a little like friendship. Perhaps in time, they’d be as close as Gallagher and Galchenyuk. For now, he’d take what he could get.

  
  
  
  


Vasily Sokolov spent most of his first three months in the NHL in a haze of unfamiliarity. The city echoed with not one but two strange languages, and though he’d been told that Montreal was one of the most “European” cities in North America, every street corner he turned, ever shop he walked into, blared one simple fact: Vasily wasn’t in Russia anymore.

 

He loved the hockey, of course, no doubt about that. As much as he loved playing with the KHL in Moscow, he couldn’t deny that the Habs played hockey at a level several notches higher than any of his previous teams. Not only were they an NHL team, they were a playoff-contending NHL team with one of the best goalies in the league and a first line center who only seemed to keep improving as the years progressed. Everyone smiled at him when he first stepped in the locker room, everyone accepted him without question, but neither the smiles nor the welcome changed the fact that his English vocabulary still  consisted of fewer than two hundred words, half of them hockey related. He knew “skate” and “puck” and “ice” and “line” but most of the food labels at the grocery store still eluded him, and if asked to hold a conversation longer than three sentences in English, he faltered spectacularly.

 

He beat all the other rookies in video games at least. That, at least, was a universal language.

 

Among the team, Alex Galchenyuk and Nikita Scherbak served as his two lifelines, and he clung to them like barnacles to a whale. Naturally, when Sasha (he’d been given permission to use that nickname his second week on the team) invited him to his annual holiday party, he accepted happily. With Sasha there, how lost could he be?

 

Which was why, on the night of the party, Vasily found himself shoved awkwardly in the corner of Sasha’s living room while strange words floated at rapid-fire speed around his head. True, Sasha spoke Russian, but Sasha was one of perhaps a hundred people gathered in the house and as the host, he needed to fulfill certain responsibilities. After losing track of Nikita nearly fifteen minutes ago, Vasily was entirely alone.

 

“I heard you’re the Russian rookie.”

 

Vasily started at the use of his native language. When he turned around, a bald-headed, stern-faced man was standing before him with something approximating a smile on his lips. It took him several seconds to place the face, but then an image flashed across his eyes, an old profile of Russian players in the NHL.

 

“Andrei Markov?” he wagered, and the man nodded solemnly. “What are you doing here?”

 

Markov snorted. “I played with Alex for seven years. We are friends.”

 

“Right, of course.” Vasily winced. “I should have known.”

 

Markov chuckled, and the small hint of a smile seemed almost comical on a face so accustomed to stoicism. “I’ll forgive you, if only because It’s nice to be recognized every now and again.”

 

Vasily flushed. “You’re welcome, I guess. I mean, that is, if I should be welcome...”

 

Markov ignored his rambling attempts at a conversation and proceeded directly into the subject area he’d clearly come to discuss. “How are you getting along?”

 

Vasily shrugged. “Fine, I suppose. Playing good hockey, I think.”

 

Markov nodded. “And Alex and Nikita? They’re taking care of you?”

 

Vasily’s flush deepened. “They don’t need to take care of me.”

 

“They should.” The finality in his voice left no room for protests. “I know what it’s like to come to Canada unable to speak English, barely able to communicate with teammates. They have a responsibility to you, at least for your first year here.”

 

“They have lives of their own, you know. They can’t just babysit me all the time like I’m a child.”

 

“They don’t need to babysit you. They just need to help you from time to time.”

 

Vasily frowned. “They’ve been wonderful to me, really. Sasha especially. He translates whenever necessary for me, and he’s invited me to dinner with his family. His mother cooks amazing  _ pelmeni _ .”

 

“That is good,” said Markov, and they fell into silence. Around them, people milled casually, beers in hand, chatting in a language as incomprehensible as ever. From across the room, Brendan Gallagher caught his eye and smiled happily.

 

Markov pointed to Gally. “And him? Has he been helping you?”

 

Vasily frowned. “As much as the rest of the team does, I suppose.”

 

Markov shook his head. “No, has he helped with Russian?” At Vasily’s blank expression, he continued: “He can speak it, you know. Not well, but he understands more than he says.”

 

Vasily wracked his brain, scrolling through his memories of Brendan Gallagher from the past three months. Nothing in his background indicated he ought to speak Russian, and if there were any other language he ought to know, it would be French. “How does he learn?”

 

“He taught himself. Nikita and Alex and I helped of course.”

 

“Really? Why?”

 

Markov looked at him as if the answer to the question ought to be most obvious thing in the world. “Because of Alex, of course.”

 

As if he’d been eavesdropping on their conversation, at that moment, Alex Galchenyuk emerged from the crowd and sidled up to Gally. He placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned down to whisper something in his ear. Gally’s face crinkled into a smile and he nudged Sasha lightly with his hip. Vasily expected some sort of tussling match to begin, for Sasha to hit back harder, but instead all he did was squeeze Gally’s shoulder tightly with his own hand.

 

“They’re good kids,” said Markov from beside him. “Good for each other.”

 

Vasily sensed there was a deeper layer to his words, one he couldn’t quite penetrate. Still, he barely knew Markov, and he didn’t press the issue any further. Jaakko Makinen, the other non-Canadian rookie, approached Sasha and Gally, and the two men separated, leaving some space in between them. They still stood side by side, but the  _ intimacy _ , for lack of a better word, was lost.

 

And though Vasily lacked the words to ask any of his questions in English, he wondered. 

  
  
  
  
  


Jaakko Makinen stepped into the swirling, fluorescent lights with a mixture of trepidation and excitement stirring in his gut. The contrast between the frozen, crackling March air and the oppressive heat of the club shocked his system, amping up his already rocketing adrenaline levels. He wished not for the first time for a friend, or any familiar face, really, but the only people he knew in Montreal were his teammates, and he could hardly invite them along for his first gay nightclub experience. 

 

The music pulsed throughout his body as he stepped into the main area, reverberating through his muscle and bones. Around him, hordes of men, all slick with sweat and heat, pressed against each other and ground their hips together in time with the beat. Many of them wore outlandish clothing like tight, rhinestone-studded leather pants or neon spandex shorts which hugged every line and curve of their ass. Some wore barely anything at all. With his tight, navy tank top and formfitting yet plain jeans, Jaakko felt almost like an Amish man, so conservative were his clothes in comparison. Not that he owned anything flamboyant enough to compare with half of the men sprawled before him. 

 

“Those are some broad shoulders you’ve got going on there.”

 

Jaakko spun on his feet and almost rammed his head into the face of the man who had spoken. The man in question was easily as tall, if not slightly taller than him (an impressive feat considering his own six foot three stature) with skin like burnished brass and a lean, slender build. Jaakko’s skin tingled.

 

“I, uh, I guess so.”

 

The man cocked his head. “Not Canadian then either. Where’s that accent from, darling?”

 

Jaakko gulped. “Finland.”

 

“Finland?” He chuckled to himself. “You don’t see that every day here, I suppose.”

 

Jaakko nodded, unsure of how else to respond.

 

The man placed his hand deliberately on Jaakko’s bicep. “My name’s Jesse. You seem nervous--is it your first time here?” Jaakko ducked his head. “Don’t worry. A guy like you won’t have any trouble finding a willing partner.”

 

Jaakko’s voice croaked, and he needed several attempts to force the words out through his raspy throat. “Are you offering yourself?”

 

“What do you think?” said Jesse.

 

Jaakko hedged his bets and wrapped his muscled arms around Jesse’s neck to draw him in for a lengthy, feverish kiss. Jesse responded enthusiastically, using his own hands to grab Jaakko’s ass and push their bodies together. The music, which Jaakko was fairly certain was some sort of Rihanna remix, seemed to oscillate in direction, and the crowd responded by collectively swaying from side to side. To his right and left, other men stumbled and crashed into the mob, but Jaakko was lost in the sensation of jesse’s mouth and Jesse’s tongue and Jesser’s hand. The world could be collapsing around him, and he would have just kept kissing him.

 

After a while, the heat of the club and of their bodies grew too overwhelming, and the two of them ventured into the howling wind and blustering cold of the outdoors. Jaakko laughed as he stumbled, hand still clutched tightly in Jesse’s own, and with so much elation and desire flooding through his veins, all he knew was that he needed more. Now.

 

He shoved Jesse against the brick wall of a nearby, perhaps a tad too forcefully, but Jesse just murmured, “God, you’re sexy,” so he counted that venture as a success. The heat of their kiss insulated him from the bite of the wind chill, and he moaned happily as Jesse nibbled at his lower lip. This night was undoubtedly turning into one of his favorite nights of the year.

 

“Hey, is that Jaakko Makinen? It totally is!”

 

The blood in Jaakko’s veins rapidly cooled to the temperature of the air, which is to say well below freezing. He yanked himself away from Jesse, and his gaze flitted around the alleyway to identify the person calling his name.

 

Nearly a dozen men had gathered outside the club’s back entrance, huddled by the black iron railings demarcating the steps to the door. Of those men, perhaps four were openly staring at him.

 

“It totally is,” said one of those four, a shorter man with dark curly hair and a burgeoning ginger beard. “Holy shit.”

 

“Um,” said Jaakko, unable to form a more coherent response.

 

“What is it, babe?” asked Jesse, tugging lightly on Jaakko’s elbow. “What’s going on?”

 

Two of the men approached Jaakko, boldly peering into his face. “You got any of your teammates with you tonight?” one of them asked.

 

The other leered. “I’ve always wondered how many folks like us were hiding in hockey. Looks like we found at least one.”

 

“Please go away,” said Jaakko weakly.

 

“Come on, you can’t be alone,” said the man, smoothing away his loose, sweaty curls from his forehead. “We could have some fun. Who else is with you here?”

 

“I’m with him.”

 

The curly-haired man backed away suddenly, and his arms dropped heavily to his sides. Alex Galchenyuk and Brendan Gallagher were standing in the entrance to the alleyway, Galchenyuk in particular striking an imposing figure. Even in the dim, electric wash of the streetlamp above, Jaakko observed an uncharacteristic gravitas in Gally’s demeanor, though the flush spread high across his cheeks indicated either cold or intoxication. Probably both, if his unsteady gait was any indicator, but neither detracted from his serious expression. Chucky was downright menacing.

 

“Is that Galchenyuk? Fuck me up the ass,” murmured one of the other men, eyeing Chucky with a mixture of fear and appreciation. 

 

“Chucky…” began Jaakko, but Alex just waived his explanation aside.

 

“All of you are going to leave now,” said Alex with a voice akin to a growl, which combined with his wild beard and tousled long hair left behind the distinct impression of an snarling grizzly bear. “If any of you say anything about what you’ve seen tonight, know that I can afford a lawyer who makes more in a year than you will in your entire lives. Understood?”

 

Those who were not paralyzed with shock and awe nodded slowly. 

 

One of the brasher members of the group stepped forward. “Who the hell do you think you are, barging in like this? None of you hockey schmucks have any idea what it’s like for people like us. Hell, you’re the reason this one has to sneak around like this all the damn time.”

 

Alex moved himself so that he stood toe to toe with the man, who was easily four inches shorter and thirty pounds lighter. As Alex flexed his considerable biceps, the man stumbled back several steps. “You have no fucking clue what you’re talking about, you cowardly piece of shit. Now fuck off before I make you do it the hard way.”

 

The group scattered instantly, leaving behind Jaakko, Galchenyuk, Gallagher and an increasingly confused Jesse.

 

“Chucky, I--”

 

“Just follow me,” said Alex gruffly. “Let’s get a cab, all of us.” He directed his last statement as Jesse.

 

They quickly hailed a cab, and the second the taxi door slammed shut, Jaakko witnessed Alex slough off a mountain of tension from his shoulders.He provided an address quietly to the driver, then turned to face the three men crammed in the back of the car. Brendan’s breath definitely smelt of alcohol, but other than a fumble in closing the door, he’d remained remarkably steady.

 

“Are you okay, Jaks?” Chucky’s expression had transformed from menacing to concerned, and he seemed to be assessing the two tagalongs to his night out with a hint of worry in his eyes.

 

“I’m fine,” said Jaakko.

 

“Okay, good, because I did not want to have to fight any of those men back there.”

 

“Only because you’re afraid you would have lost,” snarked Gally, slurring his words gently.

 

“Like you would have done so much better.”

 

“I’ve been in more fights than you!”

 

“Only because everyone hates you, you fucking pest!”

 

“Can someone please explain what the hell is going on?”

 

All eyes swiveled to Jesse, who’d managed to curl himself tightly into the corner, placing deliberate distance between him and Jaakko.

 

Alex sighed heavily from the passenger seat of the cab. “Do you know who we are?”

 

“I don’t know, should I?” said Jesse.

 

“Depends. Do you watch hockey?” asked Brendan lazily from the other side of Jaakko.

 

Jesse swallowed hard. “I’ve seen a few games, and I guess I prefer it if the Habs win.”

 

“Well we,” Alex said, twirling his finger around in a circle, “all play for the Habs. Your little fling for the night is a professional hockey player, and so are we.”

 

Jesse gaped at them. “Are you fucking with me? Are you like, part of the Russian mob or something and this is some kidnapping attempt?”

 

“I’m not Russian,” muttered Alex.

 

“Anyways,” interjected Gally, “Chucky and I thought we ought to intervene before shit hit the fan, or whatever was about to happen back there. You’re welcome.”

 

Jesse stared at Jaakko accusingly. “You’re a hockey player?”

 

“Broad shoulders,” he joked weakly. 

 

Jesse didn’t laugh, but his expression softened ever so slightly, which was the first bright spot in the past fifteen minutes of hell of Jaakko’s life. He relaxed his posture, allowed the gap between their bodies to close. Tentatively, Jaakko stretched his pinky finger across on the seat until it just brushed Jesse’s hand. Jesse didn’t react, but he also didn’t retract his hand.

 

“We’re taking you to Gally’s place,” said Alex, interrupting the brief moment of quiet in the cab. 

 

“Why not yours?” inquired Gally. Alex shot a meaningful look at him in response, and he huffed out a puff of air. “I see. Mine’s closer anyways.”

 

The taxi deposited the four of them outside a building in one of the nicer parts of Montreal. Alex steadied Gally with a hand at his elbow as they exited the vehicle, and he moved through the building with ease, first typing in the code to enter the building, then fishing out the necessary key from his own keychain to open the apartment door. Jaakko had never visited Gally’s home, but Alex displayed a casual familiarity with the place as he rifled through kitchen cabinets and pulled out whatever it was he needed. For his part, Gally flopped on one of the massive black leather couches occupying a lion’s share of the space in the living room and lolled his head back. He seemed unperturbed by Alex’s assumption of control within his own home.

 

Five awkward, tense minutes later, Alex emerged from the kitchen bearing two steaming mugs of tea and bottle of gatorade. The latter he chucked at Gally, who caught it with a grimace.

 

“Yellow? Really?”

 

“It’s all that’s left,” said Alex with a shrug.

 

“Yeah, well, who’s fault is that?”

 

“It’s your house.”

 

“And who’s the one who bought this?”

 

“Just because you can’t do your own grocery shopping--”

 

Jaakko cleared his throat loudly, wincing at the sandpapery texture of his voicebox. Both of the older Habs paused in their argument to look at him.

 

“Look, not that I don’t appreciate you helping me out back by the club, but what am I doing here? And what about Jesse?”

 

Gally cracked open the gatorade and tilted it back in order to swallow a deep swig of his drink. He shook his head minutely as the taste passed over his tongue, but swallowed several large gulps beneath Alex’s approving eyes. Once Alex had distributed the tea to both Jaakko and Jesse, he plopped next to Gally and swung his arm over the back of the couch, hand resting gently on Gally’s shoulder.

 

“Look,” said Alex, “this isn’t exactly how I planned on doing this and ideally Gally here would be a little less inebriated”--Gally raised his gatorade in a mock salute--”but I guess this is what you might call ‘the talk.’”

 

“The talk?” echoed Jaakko in disbelief.

 

“Are you like his parents or something?” asked Jesse skeptically.

 

Gally snorted. “Not his parents, but we are both alternate captains. Rookies like this guy fall under our jurisdiction.”

 

“And you’re here because I thought we owed you a proper explanation, Jesse,” continued Alex. 

 

Bitter bile rose sharply in the back of Jaakko’s throat. “If this is about the whole gay thing, I’m not changing, and I’m not going to pretend otherwise.”

 

“No one’s asking you to,” said Alex calmly. “You have my support and Brendan’s support no matter what you choose to do. It’s just, if you want it to be your choice, you might want to exercise a little discretion when making out with men in dark alleys.”

 

“He means don’t do it in public if you don’t want to be caught,” said Gally. He tipped his head to the side, allowing it to rest firmly on Alex’s shoulder. “If you do want to be caught, well...there are better ways.”

 

Jaakko comprehended their reasoning and their chain of logic, but the cruelty of the situation stung nonetheless. Unbidden, a swell of fury, amorphous and directionless but strong as he’d ever felt, swept over his senses. “And what the hell would either of you know about hiding this sort of shit, huh? Do you have any clue what it’s like, what I think about every single day? Every day in the locker room, all of the guys get to discuss which chick they picked up last night, and they get to badger each other and chirp each other and not give a damn, because nobody cares how many girls you bang so long as they’re girls! It’s not fair!”

 

His vitriol stunned even himself, and Alex and Gally exchanged loaded looks. Finally, it was Alex who spoke. “I know it sucks, Jaks. My situation might be a little different from yours, but just trust me when I say that I get it. I know it’s hard. But the league is changing, teams are changing. You’re going to have a hell of an easier time than guys ten or even five years ago. And guys five years down the line are going to have it even easier.”

 

“Fuck the future,” spat out Jaakko. “It should be different now.”

 

Alex nodded sagely. “It should. No disagreements on our end. That being said, it is late and this one here” --he gestured vaguely to Gally, who by this point was almost entirely draped across Alex’s shoulder and side--”is about to crash. It’s why we were headed home in the first place.”

 

“I’m awake,” murmured Gally muzzily.

 

“Sure you are,” said Alex fondly. He directed his gaze at Jesse and Jaakko. “Both of you are welcome to spend the night here, or you can call a taxi if you prefer. There’s a guest room and a couch, so if you both decide to stay, you can figure out your own sleeping arrangements.”

 

With that said, he hauled Gally bodily off the couch and half carried him down the hall, disappearing into one of the bedrooms with a clang as the door slammed shut. Then it was only the gentle hum of the heater and the soft breathing of Jesse and Jaakko, alone at last. When Jaakko had envisioned an apartment alone with Jesse, he had never envisioned this.

 

“I’m so sorry,” he blurted out. “I had no clue this would happen, and now I fucked up and dragged you into this mess.”

 

Jesse shrugged. “It is a little unorthodox, but it’s hardly a mess, at least from my perspective. I mean, not only is the guy I hooked up with incredibly hot, he’s a pro athlete to boot.”

 

Jaakko blushed. “I don’t even know what you do.”

 

“I’m a student. Engineering, chemical most likely, but maybe environmental. Haven’t decide for sure just yet.”

 

“So you’re smart.”

 

“I’m okay,” said Jesse. “It doesn’t leave much time for sports, I’m afraid.”

 

If you were to ask Jaakko the next day how he dredged up the courage to ask the next question, he would have been left empty handed. As it was, in that moment, the next move, the obvious next step, shone brightly before him with the clarity of a fresh summer’s day. “Does it leave any time for dates?”

 

Jesse burst out laughing. “With you?”

 

“No, with my cousin Timmy,” he said impatiently

 

“Okay, okay, too much joking for one night.” He hesitated. “I suppose I could find the time.” Jaakko’s heart lurched pleasantly in his chest. “Just as long as your gay uncles don’t crash next time around.”

 

“My gay uncles?” Jaakko furrowed his brow in confusions. “Who the hell are you talking about?”

 

“Russian grizzly dude and what was his name, Brandon? Whoever’s house we’re in right now.”

 

The lines in his forehead deepened. “Alex and Brendan? They’re not gay.”

 

Jesse looked incredulously at him. “You really are new, aren’t you?”

 

“They’re not gay! They would have told me if they were?”

 

“Didn’t they?”

 

“No!” said Jaakko immediately. “No,” he repeated, hesitating slightly on the end. “No?”

 

But then Jesse was kissing him, and the burning ember of a question lay dormant in his head.

  
  
  
  


Playing second fiddle to Carey Price involved a great deal of bench-warming, more than most other backup goalies endured, but as a twenty-two year old in his first full month of NHL hockey, James Coutreau wasn’t whining to anyone. He knew he was damn lucky to be in the NHL at all, knew he was even luckier to receive the full time backup slot while Condon nursed a strained hamstring, and even when not playing, he had the chance to practice with Carey Price. For the most part, James thought he’d managed to hide his starstruck eyes, but with Carey, once never knew exactly what the man was feeling.

 

He supposed the silver lining of his extensive time on the bench included his quick integration into the team. When trapped on the sidelines for the entire game, he and the other players chatted constantly. Pierre Durand, a player the size of a linebacker and with a heart equally as large as his muscles, seemed to relish in the chance to converse in his native language (French) with a fellow Quebecois, and he too played only a limited amount of time each game. Four weeks in, James might even call them friends. Best of all, along with Pierre followed Pewter and Soks, although Soks was a man of few words. Pewter assured him Soks’ English had actually improved over the course of the year; James shuddered to think at how bad it must have been at the start.

 

The other prominent rookie on the team, Jaakko Makinen, maintained a professional distance from the rest of them which James never understood but respected nonetheless. Which is why, when Jaks yanked all of them aside after team dinner in Boston, James knew something had happened.

 

They were crowded around in Jaks’ hotel room, one he shared with Randy, and all of them were staring expectantly at the him as he paced back and forth between the twin beds.

 

“You know, if you’ve got something to say, you should just spit it out,” said Pewter impatiently. 

 

Jaakko folded his arms tightly across his chest. “I’m sorry, it’s just--I don’t know how to say this.”

 

“Just throw it out there and see what hits,” said Randy, nudging Pewter in the ribs. “We can always ask questions.”

 

Soks just nodded. James had no idea how much of this conversation he was following.

 

“Fine, fine.” Jaakko halted dead center in the room and squared his hips. “Do you...do you think there are gay players in the NHL?”

 

James had not prepared himself for this conversation.

 

“Sure,” said Randy uneasily.

 

“And on this team? What would say about the Habs?”

 

“Pewter shrugged. “Maybe. I mean, I haven’t asked any of the guys about it, but I feel like maybe they would have told us by now, you know?”

 

“I thought so too,” said Jaakko, snapping his fingers absentmindedly. “But then...well, something happened. And it made me think that I’ve been missing something.”

 

“Jaks, you know all of this meandering around only confuses Soks here,” drawled Pewter. “Get to the point.”

 

“AreChuckyandGallytogetherer?” A pause while everyone attempted to decipher the mess of words which had just tumbled from his mouth. “Sorry, I mean, do you think there’s any chance that Chucky and Gally are both gay? And like, together?”

 

James snorted. Randy appeared pensive.

 

Pewter spoke slowly. “You know, that’s not actually the craziest theory I’ve heard so far. I mean, they’re always together, like, always.”

 

“Gally took care of Chucky back in the fall when he hurt his shoulder,” added Randy thoughtfully. “He was asking the trainer questions for him, like he was in charge or something.”

 

Jaakko sagged, clearly relieved his idea hadn’t been rejected outright. “It’s just, I know they have separate places, but I was at Gally’s last night and Chucky seemed really at home there, you know? And I didn’t see him leave Gally’s bedroom at all that night.”

 

“You spent the night at Gally’s?” asked Pewter skeptically.

 

Jaakko blushed, and oh, there had to be a story there. “Kind of. Sort of. It’s a long story.”

 

All of them, even Soks, wore the most serious expressions on their face, to the point where James wasn’t sure whether or not they were constipated. The entire situation struck him as inordinately hilarious, and before he knew it, he was cackling uncontrollably on the bed.

 

Randy glared at him. “Is something funny?”

 

James wiped a stray tear from his face. As reluctant as he was to stop the conversation--he was kind of curious to see how far the four of them would progress on their own--he’d been holding back for so long, and the information he’d locked away this past month pressed against its restraints, begging for release.

 

“I mean, of course they’re together,” he said finally, still chuckling to himself.

 

“What do you mean, ‘of course?’” said Pewter accusingly. 

 

James sighed, enjoying the mixture of confusion, annoyance, and desperate, desperate curiosity in the room. “I mean, I caught them making out my first week here after everyone else had left. They were going at it in the showers.”

 

Pewter’s nose scrunched up in distaste. “When you say going at it, they weren’t having sex?”

 

“I don’t know, man. I hightailed it out of there as quickly as possible. Not anything I needed to see.” That wasn’t entirely the truth--the sight of their half-naked bodies entangled together, fists clenched in each other’s hair and neck, had fascinated him momentarily. Then the spell had shattered and he’d realized he needed to not be staring as two of his new teammates exchanged saliva in the locker room showers.

 

“And you didn’t tell any of us?” Jaakko appeared to be genuinely hurt.

 

“I thought you already knew,” said James defensively. “I mean, like you guys were saying before, there were plenty of signs. They’re not especially subtle together.”

 

A long silence hung in the air, each man marinating in his own thoughts. Jaakko’s face kept flickering between a tiny, vindicated smile and a perplexed frown. Randy maintained his usual poker face, while Pewter chewed furiously at his lower lip. Finally, it was Sok’s who shattered the quiet.

 

“Gally know Russian. Learn for Sasha, Markov say.”

 

“Well, if Gally learned Russian just for Chucky, it’s probably pretty serious,” reasoned Randy.

 

“How long do you reckon they’ve been together?” asked Jaakko seriously. “I mean, how long can they hide something like this? Do you reckon the rest of the team knows.”

 

“Fuck,” said Pewter, and he lay back on the bed, arms strewn across his covers. “Fuck. This explains so much.” He peered out at the group with bleary, rattled eyes. “Where do we go from here?”

  
  
  
  


“The rookies know about you two,” said Carey Price mildly as he snapped the tab on his beer can.

 

“Oh yeah?” Brendan stirred from within the crook of Alex’s arm, nuzzling his shoulder gently. Alex ruffled his hair affectionately.

 

“I heard Coots and Randy talking about it together yesterday on the bus. I’m assuming both of them don’t know how much French I understand. After so many years here you’d think one of them might guess I actually knew a few words.”

 

Alex sank back deeply into the cushions of the couch he and Brendan currently occupied. He actually preferred the smooth black leather of Brendan’s couches, but the TV at his house was vastly superior to the one at his boyfriend’s. Alex also kept his house fastidiously neat, something Carey appreciated during his few nights away from his children, so chill nights with the team usually occurred chez Galchenyuk.

 

“What’s today’s date?” Alex inquired.

 

“March tenth,” supplied Brendan.

 

“Hmm,” he said. “I’m pretty sure they beat last year’s crop of rookies. I don’t think all of them knew until it was nearly April.”

 

“It was probably Jaakko,” muttered Brendan. “We weren’t particularly subtle.”

 

“Actually, it was Coots. He caught you two making out in the shower last month.”

 

A deep flush crept over Alex’s face. Brendan, in contrast, appeared remarkably unfazed. “What can I say? It’s a long way home sometimes.”

 

From behind the couch, a deep voice growled: “I hope you didn’t have sex in the locker rooms.”

 

“Ignorance is bliss, old man,” said Brendan simply, and he grinned broadly as Prusty gritted his teeth audibly.

 

Prusty flopped onto the squashy armchair to the right of the couch with his beer in hand, still seething. “You two are disgusting.”

 

Alex responded by tilting Brendan’s head towards him with a single finger beneath his chin and kissing him soundly. Brendan nibbled softly at Alex’s lower lip, and Alex squeezed Brendan’s thigh tightly, relishing in the feel of muscles trembling beneath his touch.

 

Prust emitted a pained, choked moan. “I already clean up my two year old’s vomit at home. Please don’t make me deal with my own while I’m here.”

 

They broke apart, Brendan wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “You’re just jealous.”

 

“I’m really not. Maripier is ten times hotter than both of you combined. And no offense, but sucking dicks had never been my thing.”

 

“None taken. I mean, I wouldn’t want to look at your ugly face anyways,” said Alex. “Instant boner killer.”

 

Carey cleared his throat sharply.

 

“Right, sorry,” said Alex quickly.

 

“I’m just curious, do either of you remember the calendar? I think Patches is closest with his guess, but it might have been Nikita. I’ll have to check,” said Carey.

 

“Hey, if Coots figured it out like a month ago, then I’m way closer,” argued Prust. “I’m pretty sure I bet on February fifteenth .”

 

“It has to be all of them, at least all of them who’ve been here for at least a month.” Carey smirked. “I guess you weren’t here when we made the rule initially. What was that, three years ago?”

 

“I think so,” said Brendan.

 

“I can’t believe you fuckers have been together for five years. And yet somehow, I’m even more disgusted that it took you so long to figure it out too.” Prust grimaced.

 

“Do you think you ought to just tell them next year?” said Carey.

 

“That would spoil all the fun, Pricey,” said Alex. He pressed him lips gently to Brendan’s forehead and basked in the low hum of pleasure Brendan emitted in response. “I say, until we come out all the way, might as well take advantage of the situation.”

 

“And when do you think that will be?” asked Prusty.

 

Alex thought of the ring lying beneath the false bottom in his bedside drawer and squeezed Brendan’s hand, thumb stroking his fingers in the slow circles he knew Brendan loved. “Soon,” he said, and the swell of love for the man curled in his arms nearly overwhelmed him, as it so often did. “Very, very soon.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [All Summer Long](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7888597) by [Milionking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milionking/pseuds/Milionking)




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